


Death Shall have no Dominion

by HalcyonStars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Coda, Gen, Hell Fic, Inspired by Poetry, Pre-Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4164918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalcyonStars/pseuds/HalcyonStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time. One loses sense of it without light and dark, day and night, sun and moon. He counts time gone by the blade sunken in, the times he’s burnt. But they remind him, thirty years and no one has come to save him. The demon’s used to whisper to him but now he hears the words for himself. He hears the voices in his head scream ‘YES, YES, “YES.” Thirty years and he shouts it. He screams it until his throat is hoarse and then he keeps going. He gives in, he says yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Shall have no Dominion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lonomi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonomi/gifts).



> for Lonomi who said they liked my darker fics and left really nice and encouraging comments. Admittedly, this is not that dark, but oh well :)

The contract runs out and time runs thin, ticking, ticking, ticking down to zero. The clock strikes midnight and a year is up, the hounds of hell crawl from their graves and drag him to his. Jaws crunch and teeth dig in, dragging the righteous man to the deepest pits of hell. Blood pours from his insides, and his torn heart is shredded and exposed. It is ironic that his death shows his life, past and future. For his life isn’t truly over, but he begins his afterlife and awakes in Gehenna.

 _Dead man naked they shall be one_ _  
With the man in the wind and the west moon;_

He is in hell and meat hooks dig into his flesh, and he hears the screams of millions yet seems to be completely alone.  Blood and gore and red and pain. It was overwhelming. He is a bright soul in a land of the evil, shining like a beacon and begging to be broken, to be ripped apart and passed around for their amusement. And every day he shall feel the torture, every day he shall see the true deformed and defiled faces of demons, their horns and teeth and black eyes. Every day, the Grand Inquisitor comes, and his knife bites into his skin and his insides become his outsides. Every day he becomes dirtier and less human.  
  
_When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,_  
_They shall have stars at elbow and foot;_

He feels his humanity slipping slowly, the darkness within smothering him. Each new day or what could be perceived as such in this endless damnation is one closer to the day he dreads he will lose himself. He fears he will forget who he is, his family, his life, and become the monsters he sees around him. Each day he takes a breath and it feels less like air and more like black smoke. He feels himself becoming them, feels less and less like an outsider in this realm of despair. The fog continues to drown him, seeps into his skin and taints him. He fights. Each day they ask him to say yes, and each day he says no.  
  
_Though they go mad they shall be sane,  
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; _

He fights against endless torment, brutal and cold-hearted and the personification of perdition. The sharp, harsh edges of this place sculpt the creatures within it, they chip away at their edges until all that is left is a twisted corpse of the bright soul they were. Like the knives that carve him they slowly slice off what makes him human, his compassion, empathy, and leave a broken shell. But it still flickers inside, fighting to stay alive and refusing to let him become what he fights against. _He_ puts him on his table, The Master Torturer playing with his favourite toy and he enjoys it; enjoys the pain and suffering he inflicts. _He_ straps him still and cuts and rips and tears. His will dwindles but holds. It’s been twenty-seven years, and he still hasn’t given in. His answer is still no.

  
_Twisting on racks when sinews give way,_  
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break; 

Time. One loses sense of it without light and dark, day and night, sun and moon. He counts time gone by the blade sunken in, the times he’s burnt, the times it takes for his organs to litter the floor. But they remind him, thirty years he’s been in the pit, and no one has come to save him. No one cares about him and he can stop the pain but one way. The murmurs in his ears grow louder with each passing minute. The demon’s used to whisper it to him but now he hears the words himself. He hears the voices in his head scream ‘YES, YES, YES “YES.” Thirty years and he shouts it, so loud that they can all hear it in the nine circles. He pleads and cries like a desperate deranged man. He screams it until his throat is hoarse and blood pours from his mouth, and then he keeps going. He is alone and he will not be saved so he seeks salvation in his tormenters. His body is stained with his own black blood. He gives in, he says yes.

  
_Faith in their hands shall snap in two,_ _  
And the unicorn evils run them through;_

Though he swore not to, he does. He rips into them with glee and he _enjoys_ it. Their screams are music to his ears and each time they yelp is just another moment that he is not. He does it for ten years with _Him_ by his side, telling him where to poke to get them to squeal like a pig. Absolutely slaughters them, he does. The darkness becomes him, his green eyes begin to be devoured by an inky blackness, the air that fills his lungs is black smoke.

It is as the other’s around him release the stink of fear that he worries. Fear in this place is familiar, but fear from those who incite it is foreign. The hunters become the hunted as the blue light comes. His black soul shrieks at the light that flies towards him, divine and enormous and above this place. There is a sense of wrongness, this _thing_ doesn’t belong here, it’s too clean and pure, just like he was when he first came. _It_ grabs his shoulder and scorches a mark into it.  He screams at the heat, screams as his feet lift off the ground, screams as it ascends from Hell with him in its grasps.

As they fly he feels the taint and grime blast away from him. He’s not just a ‘him’ anymore. He’s human, he has a name. His name is Dean. As they rise the last forty years of brainwashing and dehumanisation rinse away from him. Below, the fires and flesh grow smaller, and above the light beams impossibly bright until it’s’ all just black. It’s black and Dean realises he is alone again, in a coffin. The cries of the damned are silent. He hears nothing.

 _No more may gulls cry at their ears_ _  
Or waves break loud on the seashores;_

He crawls from his grave, fighting still. Dirt gets under his finger nails and even after Dean gets out of hell he still can’t get clean. What he’s done follows him even after his return, outrunning his actions a futile game. But he can resurface, breathing in clear air and not black smoke. Dean stands and looks around. The ground has been blasted like a crater, trees around his burial site and fallen outwards, pushed to the ground by a mighty force.

  
_Where blew a flower may a flower no more  
Lift its head to the blows of the rain; _

Dean sees Bobby, and he mentions a psychic named Pamela. Dean doesn’t want to see this woman, this psychic who can read him. What if she knows? What if she knows of the horrible things he’s done and will see him like a monster; just like he sees himself? What if she looks at him and sees him like he does when he looks in the mirror. Hell did its job, it ruined him. But she says not a word except for ‘ _Castiel,’_ and her eyes burn with the light that Dean saw in the pit the day he was saved. So they draw their wards and pick up their swords and summon Dean’s saviour. The lights blow, sparks fly and the air crackles with power; visions of a guiding light flying towards him as his black smoke cowered flood back to Dean. He ploughs the demon knife into the being’s – Castiel’s – chest, and doesn’t feel much shock when it does nothing. He was in a land of abominations for years, Dean saw them; he started to become one of them. He knew what they looked like and felt like, black and dirty and malicious and everything opposite of what Castiel looked like. Castiel’s deep blue eyes bore into him, and he smiles slightly. “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

 _Though lovers be lost love shall not;_  
_And death shall have no dominion._

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote it in under an hour, just a bit of speed writing (for me any way) so if there's mistakes please let me know. This was a bit experimental and different from other stuff I’ve done, but why not try out some thing new. 
> 
> Poem name is in the title


End file.
